In honor of this most brief of months, a poem, illustrated.
The clouds, a blanket overhead,
Won’t let the sun get out of bed,
And crows among the seagulls fly
Like salt and pepper in the sky.
Sometimes I like to talk out loud
when nobody is there.
My brother calls it craziness,
my mother calls it prayer,
my father calls it poetry,
and all of these are fair;
but I just like to watch the shapes
my words make in the air.